


No Man's Land

by Dracones95



Category: Metro 2033 - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5314331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracones95/pseuds/Dracones95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been years chasing ghosts and rumours, and yet a small part of him still hopes he will finally find what he is looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"This is ridiculous!" 

Artyom almost jumped at his comrade's sudden outburst, watching him point the barrel of his Kalash at a rat that has just come crawling out of a broken pipe; he made a disgusted face at the pest. The other man decided against wasting bullets on the rodent, instead throwing the old gun on his shoulder and slumping back into his seat, facing the darkness of the tunnel they were supposed to guard. 

The return to Exhibition, after the exhausting and utterly unnecessary campaign against the Reds, was like a breath of fresh air, fresh air which he hadn't had the luxury to feel in his lungs ever since his mother carried him inside the subway tunnel the first time the bombs fell upon Moscow. Despite knowing that he - they - hadn't solved anything with fighting yet another pointless battle, he somehow felt a little more at ease. Like he had made the metro little safer for his son, and for Anna.

Every now and then he could see Ulman's face so clearly in his mind; while death was ever present, it didn't mean it hurt any less. This small feeling of safety came at too great a price. 

So he refrained himself from asking what his comrade found ridiculous; everything was, more or less. That struggle to survive. The fact that they had to kill each other for resources. For weapons. For a doctrine. He sighed, gripping at his own gun tighter, pointing at the black mouth where the rails disappeared. The rat, sensing the two weren't interested in its presence anymore, ran across the tunnel and hid into another pipe, squeaking pathetically. 

A long howl followed, prompting both of them to tense in their seats; the older man rose the sights to his eyes.

"Watchmen," Artyom said, out of reflex, tapping the trigger guard with his finger twice. The butt of the Kalash dug into his shoulder; the other man looked over the sights into the darkness.

"This deep?" He said, although he didn't doubt Artyom's guess. Anyone who had walked the tunnels knew who and what made each sound; vital information, that could make the difference between getting to live another day and becoming another casualty. It was, however, odd to hear that sound there, so close to a station; Artyom remembered the horde he had once seen on the surface. They rarely ventured inside the tunnels. 

He listened, closely, almost holding his breath. The mutated beast fell quiet; Artyom glued his cheek to the wood, finger tense on the trigger, but nothing jumped out of the darkness. He heard the older man shift beside him. 

"It's nothing." He concluded, "Must have been lost or something." Artyom straightened his back, rubbing at his sore neck. "Man, this fucks with your head!" Artyom laughed, humorlessly; this man, despite being older than him and remembering exactly what the world looked like before they ruined it, had never left Exhibition. What does he know about the paranoia that those tunnels instill in you? The feeling you are being watched. People going crazy, babbling words with no meaning around you.

People you thought you could trust backstabbing you. That wound was still fresh; no matter how many times he told himself he would let it heal, something kept coming back to him and made him pick at it. 

The sound of the gate opening was a blessing; it meant he could finally pass the heavy Kalash to another man, and go back to his home. The kid was no older than twenty and his eyes shone with admiration when he looked at him; for him, he was some sort of a hero, though he had never felt like one. Never wanted to. What was the point of being the hero of a dying world? 

Anna kissed the corner of his mouth when he came home that night; he had glanced at the treasured clock the people of Exhibition kept working no matter what to see that it was almost nine. Time felt surreal; it almost didn't exist anymore. He could only see it in the length and color of the elders' beards, and in how the children had grown. His son was fast asleep, with an old stuffed cat in his small hands; it's been a while since he saw one in the metro. They were probably all gone, or mutated, and his son would grow up to think it is some sort of a fantasy monster. 

He sighed, deeply, and Anna gripped his shoulder in a reassuring gesture. I'm here, it said, and yet somehow it wasn't enough.

When he returned to the gates the next day, he was surprised to see a red splatter and two large, grey furred bodies, skulls crushed by the spray of lead. A man was nursing a bite on his leg that tore both the thick material of his camouflage pants and his meat off his bones; the other was nudging the mutants with a Bastard, wiping the sweat off his forehead at the same time. They have both been caught by surprise, the unexpected enemy doing more damage than it should have done. 

"What the hell?" Artyom took the gun from the uninjured man's hands, allowing him to help his comrade. He studied the corpses - Watchmen. And not just a lost one.

"That is unusual." The wounded man pointed at them, wincing as his comrade wrapped the lacerations the best he could; Artyom looked at the gun - only four bullets left, casings scattered all over the entrance to the station. "Definitely something wrong with them, they were agitated, most likely running from something." He slung an arm around the other's shoulders, standing up with a groan.

"Something is stirring a nest." He confirmed what Artyom had been thinking all along; he was positive he heard one the other day, and now this. It could be a demon that had hit the jackpot, or it could be something else. Someone else, maybe. He knew for sure there was a stalker safehouse somewhere near the entrance to Exhibition. Whatever it was, it was putting the station's safety and integrity in danger; two watchmen weren't that much of a threat, but a whole horde of them could cause a disaster. A feeling of deja vu hit him and he shook his head to refocus on the dead bodies at his feet.

The injured man was carried at the makeshift hospital that Exhibition housed; the doctor insisted on congratulating him on the luck he had been gifted with. While vicious enough to make a sizeable hole in his calf, the bite didn't catch his bone, leaving it intact. Artyom listened carefully to the several men that proposed going to the surface and seeing what was causing this weird behaviour, before volunteering to go with them, the very next morning.

While they were more than happy to have him amongst them, Anna didn't share the feeling; she looked at him warily. She's been doing that for a while, half expecting him to blow at any moment. He dared to say she knew him better than anyone - or at least she was the only one left that knew him well, now that his father was gone. She knew something was eating at him. She thought he was done with it, why would he want to return to the surface? 

"Be careful, okay?"

There was more she wanted to say to him, he was sure of that. But for now, she settled for trying to show him she cared, that it wasn't worth it. He slung the Kalash on his shoulder anyway. 

"I will be." He assured her. 


	2. Chapter 2

He was outside and the sun was frying the skin on his cheeks and forehead; he could somehow breath without the gasmask. He looked around with a puzzled expression, seeing green grass and the puddles of murky water and skeletal silhouettes of ruined apartment blocks. He gripped the revolver he hadn't realized he had in his hand until then tighter. 

He recognized the place.

The Tupolev was still there, white with blue letters and lines running along the steel body; the grip on the gun relaxed. Just below it, Teatralnaya. A few mutated crows, startled by his presence, rose towards the surprisingly clear sky. The snow had all melted and the air was crisp and fresh; was this how it was supposed to be like, Moscow? Save for the cracked concreted buildings and the debris scattered by the winds - hope bloomed inside a small corner of his chest. Perhaps they could fix this. Rebuild and learn to cherish it this time.

The entrance to the plane was uncovered, the door forced open; he could see seats ripped from the floor by the sheer force of impact with the entrance to the Theatre station. The belly of the metal beast hung over the now nonfunctional escalators; Artyom rose the revolver, walking inside the plane. For a moment, there was silence and he stepped over the blackening bones of what had been a passenger on that cursed flight, scattered all over the dirty red carpeted floor.

Then he heard the shuffling of a thick coat, and whimpers and gasps which sounded way too familiar. A ribcage cracked under his boot and he felt sick to his stomach. The gasps turned into a chant of his own name, pleading for help desperately.

He was there, in the same place he had found him before, with his mask ripped off and his blue eyes watering. There was a lump in Artyom's throat and for a brief moment he didn't even remember his name, though he wanted to call out to him. Why? Why was he fading? Why was he forgetting? He had the pistol in his hand, he could just end it; one bullet and he'd be gone. 

Suddenly, his head snapped up to look at his face, eyes wide and mouthing words Artyom could not hear; it was then when he realized, he didn't have his mask either.

The air was cut off abruptly and he choked like a fish pulled out of water, dropping the gun and bringing his hands to his neck. He heard something banging into the metal carcass, getting louder and louder, closer and closer. Demon. Ready to feast. His mouth filled with blood and he tried looking at the other man for one last time but he was gone. 

He woke up with a start, gasping for air and frantically looking around, unsure of what exactly he was looking for; Anna stirred beside him. The knocking was still there, he realized, loud and insistent; he rose from his bed and walked to the door, tripping over discarded clothes. He was greeted by four fully equipped men, gasmasks hanging from their belts and armed with three Kalashnikov and a Shambler; the one that had been until then set on breaking down his door frowned at him. 

" _Chto?_ Come on, Artyom, you're not ready yet?" Artyom gaped at him. How did he forget? They were supposed to go to the surface, first thing in the morning, and investigate the entrance to the station, find out what startled the Watchmen horde so badly. He sighed, wiping at his eyes and excusing himself, mumbling something about oversleeping and bad dreams.

Inside, Anna was still asleep, her face serene and peaceful. He leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead - his mind was still buzzing. The thought of returning to the surface gave him a thrill - both excitement and a little bit of fear and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on. What exactly was he expecting to find? It was all going to be the same, the same destruction and chaos that man brought upon himself. Craving a change was so pointless, yet he still hoped. Hope. When was it finally going to die? He gathered his clothes off his floor, trying hard not to think of the plane whose image was so fresh in his head now. 

"Guards killed more watchers last night," the oldest in the group, a bald man named Piotr, informed him as they closed the gate behind them. "Said they behaved just like the others, scared and overly aggresive. One of them said he heard something like an explosion before they came rushing towards them, but he's not sure. We're looking inside that stalker outpost first."

Artyom nodded at every sentence said, only hearing half of them while walking beside him at a slow pace. The older man studied his face carefully.

"You the strong and silent type?" Artyom laughed, feeling his tense muscles relax just a bit. 

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I've got a lot on my mind."

"Yeah, who doesn't?" And with that he fell silent; Artyom resisted to urge to tell him to keep talking, tell a story or even sing a song, just to have something else to listen to, other that that voice chanting his name in his head. Why was he torturing him? Why can't he just go away? He looked over his shoulder into the darkness behind him, unable to distinguish anything beside rails and cables that no longer served for any purpose.

"Is something wrong?" A man around his age asked him, grabbing his arm and shaking him gently. He turned towards him; his eyes were also blue and wide, but still different from his. Nothing like his.

"No." He pointed with the knife he had at some point grabbed from his belt without realizing at the ladder two meters in front of them. "We're here." Irritated by the concerned looks he was getting, he moved towards the hatch himself; he had been for a while now aware of the way people at Exhibition were glancing at him when they thought he wasn't looking, as if they were worried about him and his sanity. What was worse, Anna had the same look on her face. 

He admitted, he hasn't been himself ever since that battle at D6, but who would have been? Every single death of a person he knew, person he shook hands with and shared a drink with haunted him and he sometimes found himself starting to count how many shots he took, how many bullets left the barrel of his gun. Hell, the dull ache in his chest bloomed ten times its size whenever he thought about Ulman or remembered one of his jokes, but there was nothing he could do about it now. 

He went up the ladder first, pushing the heavy hatch up with some difficulty; Piotr followed. "Gasmask." He reminded him, but Artyom's hand was already reaching for it. 

The sun blinded him and he panicked, bringing his hand to his mouth to check if he actually had the mask. His open palm hit the filter - Piotr grabbed his elbow, his eyes asking the same question as his comrade. Artyom nodded furiously, straightening his back. The surface was quiet, no sign of any watchmen, nor demons. Artyom's sleeve caught a dead plant and snapped it, startling a small rat hiding inside a hollow, almost petrified log. 

Piotr pointed west, motioning for the rest of the team to hurry. "The shelter's right over there, let's move."

Artyom followed, trying his hardest to clear his weary mind, which was starting to recall moments he had tried very hard to bury. 

_The heavy hatch fell with a loud noise, followed by the other's curses at himself for making such a ruckus. But apart from the wind howling outside of the small shack, no one else was there; Artyom suddenly felt very small and insignificant, fully aware of the deserted city around them. He was born there. This was his home, and yet it felt nothing like home._

_"Cozy, eh?" The cheerful voice filled the empty space the dead city opened in his chest. "Probably a Ranger outpost, but of course, I wouldn't know that." He winked and Artyom shook his head, amused; he wasn't one for politics anyway, even though the whole 'enemy of my enemy' policy was what brought the two of them together in the first place. People fighting over beliefs and politics was what brought them down there in the metro in first place. The root of all evil has a god and a color._

_"Man, and here I was thinking I could find something else to eat rather than rat." The man dumped the contents of a small wooden box on the square table, strips of dried rat meat falling out; Artyom couldn't help but chuckle at the disappointed look on his face. For now, red was a pretty color._

The door to the stalker safehouse was heavy and rusty and it took several good kicks only to crack it open a few centimeters. Speckles of dust danced in the strip of light that penetrated the enclosed space; it smelled awfully of gunpowder and singed hair. Piotr pushed the door with his shoulder, frowning at the loud creak the old hinges produced. Artyom shook his head, trying to drive away the memory that entered his mind.

He stepped inside first, Kalash pointed at the counters on the other side of the square room; Artyom followed, tiptoeing on the wooden floor. Dust coated the small round carpet in the middle to the point that its color and pattern was unrecognizable; footprints other than theirs were printed on the dirty planks.

Near the single window, the floor was wiped clean; Piotr motioned for the man with the Shambler to come forward. If a watcher happened to remain trapped inside, the shotgun would be a lot more effective. Artyom listened carefully for any sign of movement or growl.

_The shotgun smiled back at him from the desk top; his eyes remained glued to the weapon and without thinking he flipped the switch on the green lamp. Surprisingly, it still worked, flooding the room in an orange light. His hand wrapped around the shotgun, carefully studying it; it looked functional, the only flaw being a few small scratches near the trigger. Most important, it was loaded. Whoever left it there didn't do it by choice._

_Without a warning, he found himself pinned to floor, the huge mutated dog pushing down on his chest and trying its best to find his jugular with its yellow teeth. He pointed the shotgun up, and prayed to whoever listened it would fire._

_"Took your sweet time, eh?" The other man had his back turned, watching shadows dance on the wall across from them. The first thing he saw when he finally looked over was the gun in his hands. "Oh, you found a shotgun!" His enthusiasm was almost childlike, disappearing when he noticed the blood on his clothes and mask._

That concerned look on his face remained imprinted in his brain; he urged himself to stop thinking. Perhaps coming to the surface again was a mistake. That closure he hoped to find would probably never come.

He approached the window with caution. A few empty shotgun shells were lined on the floor at Artyom's feet, along with blackened broken shards; remains of at least three Molotov cocktails. The setup was all too tidy, too organized to be coming from somebody on the run, defending himself, holed up in the small space with a horde of watchmen at the door. It was hard to image why anybody would deliberately put themselves in such danger; whoever it was, they were either crazy or suicidal. Or tried to get someone's attention. Artyom wiped the visor of his mask with the back of his hand - he had to somehow bury that tint of silly hope that incessantly pushed itself into his mind. 

"What's this?" He heard Piotr say, picking up what looked like a rectangular piece of paper from one of the counters. Artyom approached him, curious; Piotr turned up his nose, handing him the yellowed material.

"A Red Line passport," someone said from behind him, looking over his shoulder. Artyom stared at the emblem printed on the paper, his heart racing wildly against his will. He glanced back at the straight line of casings on the ground. It had to be a sign; he wasn't seeing things, was he? He's spent too much time chasing ghosts to afford another delusion. 

"So you're telling me that some commie came all the way from the Red Line to Exhibition just to raise some shit with the watchers?" A blond man Artyom didn't know said incredulously, tapping his gun with the heel of his hand. 

"Could be a patrol..." somebody else chimed in; Artyom was still holding that piece of paper that now seemed to burn his fingers through the thick gloves. He pocketed it, without thinking, but nobody said anything against it. 

"A patrol here? It's unlikely." He said and all eyes flew to him; he felt uncomfortable, tugging at the collar of his coat, where it met the plastic gas mask. 

"Well, you know better." The same blond shrugged, implications behind his tone that Artyom didn't want to confront him about. Probably one of those persons that considered him unstable; he clenched his fists - without him there would be no Exhibition. He never wanted special treatment, no matter which kind. 

"Whoever it was, they're gone now." Piotr lowered his gun, heading back towards the door. Artyom bit his lip under the mask, exhaling loudly and watching the glass fog up. Outside, the wind started to howl; it was a mistake coming up there. 

He kept one hand in his pocket the whole walk back to the station, feeling the thin paper between his fingers. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love clumsy-ass novel Artyom so much :) also, I will never get over Ulman. Never.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have merged chapter 2 and chapter 3 together, since the 3rd was kind of short and it looked too chopped up for my liking. So, technically, this was supposed to be chapter 4.

It wasn't the first time he had fallen asleep on guard, waking up with a start after only several seconds of dreams riddled with shining blue eyes. This time, however, his comrade had to shake him vigorously, making him drop his gun on the floor of the tunnel. His worried visage was the first thing he saw, blinking several times to bring himself back to the reality that smothered him so much. 

"Artyom, are you alright?" He bent over to collect the Kalash and wiped a speckle of dust off the wood with the sleeve of his thick coat; he avoided looking him in the eye as he lied.

"Yes." He was furious with himself; he gripped the old assault rifle with one hand, tight enough to turn the color of his knuckles to ivory white. The other hand sat in his pocket, playing idly with the edge of the passport.

It's been four days since they went to the surface, four days since they last saw a watcher. Four days of carrying around a piece of old paper; he had studied it carefully, memorizing every line and every letter, and hiding it quickly whenever Anna walked into their bedroom. She was worried too, he could see it in her eyes and in the way she touched his arm as if he was made out of fragile glass, squeezing it lightly every once in a while; he hated it. If she didn't believe in him, then who else would? 

His eyelids felt heavy and he forced himself to remain awake by squirming in his folding chair; Teatralnaya, that's what he saw in his dreams, what he's been seeing ever since he returned from the surface. Even before that, if he counted the plane that had crashed on top of it a long time ago. It haunted him; he saw tall ceilings and dancing girls and a mischievous grin aimed in his direction. 

_"Girl hungry, Artyom?" He teased him, his eyes glinting strangely and never breaking contact with his own green, embarassed gaze. He admitted it had lingered on the dancers' long legs a little too much, and felt like a scolded child; ridiculous. Why should he be ashamed, he wasn't ten anymore. The man's eyes studied the lines of his face, his grin faltering a little, but still there; Artyom felt his skin burn hotter._

He sighed deeply, aware of the fact that his comrade was watching him out of the corner of his eye; tired, he stood up, stretching his arms above his head until his stiff joints relaxed. Cluttered, his mind remained in the same state of chaos, revolving around a single clear notion - the theatre. That's where it all went to hell, just as he was thinking that it couldn't get any better than that. He hadn't died in that Nazi prison camp, he was almost out of Red territory and getting closer to Polis and to finding the Dark One; something there was almost too good to be true. His naivety was still infuriating, even after all those years, that musketeer talk still making his blood boil, and no amount of excuses would ever justify the other's actions. 

It didn't leave no matter how hard he was trying to chase it away, and Anna was starting to get tired of him sitting slumped over the table and staring at nothing in particular, a stranger to the world around him. He had gotten sloppy by the third day and she had found the now crumpled paper in his pocket, frowing at it while brushing a few locks of brown hair out of her face.

"What's this?" She still had asked despite the fact that she already knew, seeing how her eyes had darkened when she saw the red stars. Artyom had avoided her steel eyes; hers were blue too, but lacked warmth - sometimes he wondered what exactly he had seen in them. What were they to him? 

"We found it on the surface, in the stalker safehouse," He had explained slowly, choosing his words carefully - it hadn't been a lie, but he had feared her reading between the lines; she already had, judging by how her expression softened and those azure orbs filled with pity and concern. 

"I know what you're thinking." She had begun. "Let it go, please." It had been single handedly the worst piece of advice he could ever get, but she had been almost begging him to. And then he had promised he would. 

Now he felt awful for being unable to keep his promise; he gripped the Kalash tighter, moving with slow, small steps towards the occupied chair. The tunnels stirred and the other man tensed in his seat, eyes trained on the darkness. Artyom bit his lip, his once steady hands starting to shake slightly.

"Probably a rat." His comrade muttered, loosening his grip on his only weapon.

"Definitely a rat." Artyom replied, bringing the butt of the gun down on the back of his head.

 He watched the limp body fall off the chair with a thud, rising a small cloud of dark grey dust; for a moment, he couldn't move, regret threatening to drown him, but the thought of columns and a large stage pulled him out. He knelt down next to him and emptied his pockets of shiny military grade rounds and a metal lighter; he stopped, watching the inert body, before pressing three fingers to his throat. Blood was still throbbing - he would only have a nasty headache and a bump later. He grabbed the gun the other man dropped and removed the magazine, putting it in his pocket. 

Two hours. That's all the time he got before others would come to replace them, find his comrade knocked out and him gone. Two hours to get as far away from Exhibition as possible; he swallowed around the lump in his throat, trying to ignore the voice in his head telling him this was a huge mistake. 

The next station south from Exhibition was Alekseyevskaya, close enough to make the relatively safe journey on foot; this tunnel was the only one that linked Exhibition to the rest of the Metro, ever since the one leading to Botanicheskiy Sad had collapsed; he presented his own passport to the guards, who allowed him through with curt nods. A part of the VDNKh Commonwealth, Alekseyevskaya strongly depended on Exhibition, which provided food and protection for both this station and Rizhskaya, further south. He was starting to feel anxious; this station, sparsely populated, didn't have a clock like Exhibition did, and Artyom's internal one had started to become unreliable. Still, it couldn't have been more than an hour since he left; that left him with one more hour until their shift was supposed to end, unless the other man had already woken up from the forced slumber and alerted the station. He removed his gloves and rubbed at his eyes nervously; he was starting to agree with his conscience, but there was no turning back now. 

He arrived at Rizhskaya, accompanied by two very talkative stalkers he had found on the platform in Alekseyevskaya and who were more than happy to have him with them. Artyom studied their weird appearances while the two strapped their bags to their cart; stalkers, usually, were said to not be in their right mind, to the point of being almost suicidal. Scavengers that ran the surface for all sorts of supplies, they had little consideration for the dangers they were exposing themselves to. Artyom had lost count of how many such dead bodies he had looted whenever he had found himself outside the Metro. 

Feeling unusually sleepy and cold, Artyom tuned out their conversation, but at some point something caught his attention.

"...sworn I saw a Red a few days ago, I'm not entirely sure, though." Artyom's head snapped up, looking at the man on his left, a filter-less gasmask covering his face. He was fairly young, most likely a thrill seeker, for whom the Reds were like an evil fairytale monster. "Holed up in that hut near Exhibition. Weird, if you ask me." The other stalker nodded in agreement. "Scared the crap out of the watchers too, I had to lay low for a while, so I wouldn't get ripped to shreds." 

Artyom's heart was thumping in his chest, loud enough for him to fear that the others might hear it. He stayed quiet hoping the kid would say more about the matter, but it wasn't the case.

"We're here." Artyom jumped out of the cart quickly; an hour and a half and he was still on Commonwealth territory. One word and he could get arrested. For the first time, he was starting to wonder, was it really worth it? The question, however, answered itself; he had tried moving forward, but he was tied, and it was infuriating.

The man at the main office, wearing an expression that clearly said he had just woken up, raised an eyebrow at him when he asked when the next caravan to Teatralnaya was leaving. 

"I have an important delivery." Artyom said, biting his lip nervously and trying to look as innocent as he could, given the conflict with his own conscience inside his head. He shouldn't have done that, shouldn't have left; Anna was probably making him tea right now, awaiting his return. 

"What, mushroom tea?" The other said grumpily, looking through the papers on his dusty desk and startling Artyom, who stared at him with wide eyes. He dropped the matter, however. 

"You're in luck." Artyom sighed in relief, but then frowned; his luck was going to run out at some point. He had been saved by sheer, dumb luck way too many times, his life depending on coincidences. He pushed away the thought that this could also be a coincidence; he needed it to be real. His sanity depended on it. "There's one leaving in an hour."

An hour; not bad. He just had to hope that it would take some time for them to find the unconscious man, and send a searching party for him. He calmed himself a little, stepping off the narrow catwalk onto the station platform. He's been there before, years ago; the makeshift bar was still in the same spot, filled with the buzzing of conversations and smell of booze. He pulled a chair back and sat down alone at a table, in a corner. 

Bourbon. This was were he had met the former trader/criminal, and agreed to travel alongside him. He smiled sadly to himself and swirled his drink in his fogged up glass; Hunter, Bourbon, Ulman. Losses that all hurt in their own different way, from a dull memory to a sharp sting. He had stopped thinking they would ever heal completely and disappear a while ago. He had to learn how to live with them, and he was bad at it; a lot harder to treat a wound than make it. At some time he had found himself angry with them: with Hunter for sending him away, with himself for accepting it, with Bourbon for putting a gun in his hands and then again with himself for accepting it. 

It's not your fault, Anna had told him, but he tended to disagree. 

The caravan from Rizhskaya to Teatralnaya left just as the station received a radio transmission about a dangerous, armed fugitive by the name of Artyom. 


	4. Chapter 4

_"Like a stroll through the park, eh?" Gasping heavily thanks to the smoke pooling in his lungs and the adrenaline that almost frayed all of his nerves, he half glared at the amused face that was beaming at him; he had already taken his mask off and was wiping the sweat off his round visage. One step away from death and he was making jokes; Artyom couldn't decide if that was a healthy attitude to keep him from going insane, or if the man was insane already._

He held his breath as the metal hermetic door unsealed with a loud noise and allowed the trolley inside; Red soldiers with deep frowns embedded on their faces studied them as they walked by. Their influence on Teatralnaya had diminished after the D6 battle, but they still held to it like a famished dog holds onto a piece of dry bread; Artyom avoided looking them in the eye, keeping a hand tightly curled around one of the side iron bars on the cart. Three hours since he left Rizhskaya and all he could think of was his son, asking a disappointed and worried Anna where his father was. He swallowed around the regret knotting in his throat and chest; it was better this way; they would live better without him and than they would with the shell of the man he used to be.  

A young Red soldier took his time checking his passport, his face clean of scars and deep lines; that kid had never shot a single bullet at anybody in his life. Artyom almost envied him. "Clear." He announced, puffing his chest with importance and Artyom barely kept himself from taking a swing at his head; young fool thinking he was privileged only for wearing that uniform. He was in luck, though; a veteran could have recognized him. He left the trolley and the other three men that came with him behind.

It felt surreal, being there again, like he didn't belong. He dropped the bullets he took from the other man in a beggar's gloved hand and suddenly felt a little warmer inside. A little better about himself, as if he hadn't just knocked out a man that was his comrade and who trusted him, abandoned his family and went chasing after somebody who could very well be dead. 

_He ran up the stairs despite the sharp pain in his side, and his hip where one bullet had left a shallow scratch, deep enough to stain his clothes a bright crimson but not enough to incapacitate him._

_'Sadness', that's what the little Dark One had muttered, confused himself about the whole situation. His own throat felt tight, with something between said sadness, and anger. He stopped, dropping the gun he had collected from a dead Stalker, after his own had jammed and couldn't be fixed. The Dark One looked at him questioningly, large head tilted to the side; his own expression was blank, void of anything that could betray the entire array of emotions that cluttered his mind._

_With a short motion, he pulled out the knife, looking at his reflection on the narrow blade. The Dark One nodded in understanding, disappearing. Artyom ran his thumb along the blade; least he could do is make sure it was sharp._

It hadn't occurred to him before, that the man could be dead. He wasn't at D6 the day of the clash, and he remembered he had felt both relieved, and disappointed, if that was even possible. He was conflicted, he'd always been when it came to him. And that's why he hated him so much. Despite every instinct telling him not to trust the man, he still did. He still cut him free from the noose and put that mask back on his face. So he tried his best not to consider the fact that he could be dead an option. He had to be alive. For his own sanity's sake. 

 _"A knife, eh?" He had noticed the knife first, when he finally entered his visual field; same one he had given him in the Nazi camp, same one he used to cut his restraints. He had cut him free from Nazi imprisonment, but_ _tied his life to his own. Sincerely now, Artyom would have preferred the rope around his wrists. "That's my boy." He was smiling behind his mask. Always smiling; it was contagious, even. Artyom gripped the knife harder, advancing slowly towards the Major._

_Major. If only had he known. "Come on, now. No mercy."_

Whatever happened after that at the Red Square was a blur that his mind could not clarify no matter how hard he tried; he was sure of one thing, however. He didn't do it. His knife was clean of blood and all the six rounds were still in his revolver. All that pent up anger and frustration had somehow dissipated and replaced with a mercy for which he had no explanation. That man sold him. He should have killed him, quickly, if not taking his time to get revenge, but he should have killed him nonetheless.

In his mind, he was alive, and he had to do anything in his power to find him again. He sighed, running his hand through his hair, watching the girls dance on the stage. Their show was as terrible as ever, everything was the same as it was years ago, and yet it felt so different to him. 

He sneaked backstage after the girls finished their show, and went up to a red haired one that was powdering her nose in the cracked mirror. He bit his lip, hesitating, and she raised one excessively blackened eyebrow. 

"Have you seen him?" He paused, watching confusion spread across her face. "Pavel Igorevich." It must have been the first time in years he had spoken his name, even pronounced it in his head. His heart was pounding in his chest, and sank at how the woman frowned and shook her head, sending red strips of hair that got loose from her bun across her pale face. Faces who had never seen the sun.

"Haven't seen him in years." She went back to her powder, leaving Artyom to slowly sink into desperation. He was sure he'd find at least a small bit of a trace here, and he hadn't prepared himself to have his hope shattered in such a cruel manner. He gripped the back of her chair, wanting to yank her back to him, yell at her to tell him the truth, but she had no reason to lie to him. She smoothed the fine wrinkles at the corner of her lips and Artyom suddenly felt time press down on his shoulders. Years, she had said. So much could have happened in those years, while he was yearning to find at least an answer, a reason to why it all went down the way it did, but done nothing about it, except think.

He slept into some sort of a hotel tent that night, wondering if anybody was actually looking for him.

He awoke from a terrible nightmare in which he failed to save Anna from a horde of nosalises with a start, arm instinctively reaching out to touch her body that usually slept next to him, but he found nothing. The room around him was empty and the faint red glow of the emergency lights barely lit up the cold space. His head was spinning awfully, nausea rushing up to his throat; he coughed in his palm several times, doing nothing but worsen his state. 

A small creak he almost missed made him go still; he scanned the darkness, frowning at the sight of a body blocking the tent entrance. In ten seconds, he was on his feet, hands around his gun and muzzle pointed at the silhouette. They made no move, staring him down from the darkness; something very familiar about the curve of their spine made Artyom's finger tremble on the trigger.

"Who are you?" He shouted, voice thick and raspy. He heard the click of a revolver and tightened the grip on his gun, ready to fire at any sudden movements. The short bark of laughter was unmistakable; he swallowed around the lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, every bone in his body shaking. He resisted the urge to pinch himself to make sure this wasn't just an extension of that brutal nightmare.

"I know it's been a while, but I didn't think you wouldn't recognize me anymore." The tone was bashing, but overall friendly, and Artyom felt anger rise to his chest. Suddenly, the lights in the station turned on and the man's round face smiled at him from the door, revolver pointed directly at his chest.

"You bastard!" It was all he could bring himself to mutter through his teeth, clutching the Kalash until he couldn't feel his fingers anymore. It was no nightmare, no fantasy, nothing; he was really there, but anger wasn't churning at him as much as he thought it would. He thought he'd be furious, that he would tear the man apart, but he didn't. 

"Just a precaution, of course, sorry about that." Pavel shrugged, lowering his gun and placing it in the holster at his hip. Age was starting to show on his visage, but it held the same childish glee on it as it always did. He looked at him as if he expected Artyom to lash out at him, punch him, even put a bullet in his head without as much as an explanation; Artyom stood frozen in confusion. Why here, why now? Why at all? He had wanted this to happen for such a long time, but now that he was there in front of him, he had no words to tell him. No questions to ask. He lowered his gun without thinking, staring defeated into his blue eyes. Every trace of anger dissipated, leaving him in a state of numbness.

"Elena told me you asked about me. So you did miss me after all, eh, _chuvak_?" His eyes sparkled as Artyom held his gaze. He sounded genuinely delighted when he spoke, as if he had terribly missed Artyom himself.

"How did you know I would come here?" He tried to keep his voice even, but it broke halfway through the sentence, making Pavel smile rather fondly and himself feel stupid. 

"This is where it all went to hell, it just felt natural, I guess." He shrugged again, taking a step further inside the room; Artyom's first reaction was to raise the gun, prompting Pavel to stop and watch his gestures warily. 

"Whoa, there!" He made a motion to put his hands up but gave up halfway. He wanted to reach out and touch the former Ranger's tense arm to calm him, but he was sure that the result would be the exact opposite, earning him an entire magazine through his chest. "You knew I'd be here too, am I right?" Artyom didn't answer, but the look on his face confirmed Pavel's assumptions. He wasn't about to tell him that this cursed place followed him even in his dreams. "You just needed an impulse to make you act on it."

"The passport." He muttered. "That was insane, this whole thing is insane. You're insane." He lowered the gun once more, looking into Pavel's eyes like they could somehow make it all better.

"You lured me out here." He threw his gun to the side, grabbing the front of Pavel's jacket. Up close, he could see a tiredness in his eyes he hadn't noticed before. His grip faltered. "I abandoned my family because of you." He wanted to hit him but he could find no strength left in himself.

"So make it worth it." He said nonchalantly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I've always told you, you're on the wrong side of the barricade." He frowned, ripping himself away from Pavel's intoxicating presence. He was trying once more to get inside his head, and Artyom feared he would succeed, like he did everytime he had tried to. 

"There's no barricade anymore." He raised his voice, rubbing at his eyes insistently; he half wished that when he was done, Pavel wouldn't be here anymore. 

"There will always be one," he said with a sad tone, tapping his finger on the butt of his revolver. The same he had pointed at Artyom years ago, in Venice. Things needed to change, both of them needed their closure; how that was going to turn out, it was entirely up to Artyom. The single bullet in the chamber was awaiting his decision. "The good thing is you get to choose where you stand." He pressed his palm flat against the gun; Artyom noticed his gesture, looking back at him with an unreadable expression.

"So, what's it going to be, _chuvak_?" 

Artyom's mind flew back to his son, and Anna, who most likely hated him by now, before nodding his head slowly. Pavel's hand slipped away from the gun, and went to engulf his own in an warm embrace.


End file.
